CHAPTER III
Maria's gnarled knuckles beat vigorously upon her young master's door. When her tattoo failed to bring results, she opened the door and walked boldly in. Waddling to the floor-length windows, she flung aside the heavy draperies, drenching the room with sunlight. With a guttural exclamation that was half disgust and half tenderness, she turned toward the dark, recumbent form upon the canopied bed, still undisturbed by her activities. She approached Rodrigo and shook him.
When at last he blinked up at her, she said sharply, "Get up, lazy one. Your American has already breakfasted and is downstairs waiting for you."
Rodrigo's face screwed itself interrogatively, American? Then his drowsy, somewhat fuddled brain remembered Dorning, of Dorning and Son. Rodrigo frowned. Bother Americans. So full of restless energy, such early risers. He looked languidly at the watch upon his wrist. Eleven o'clock. He sat upright in bed and indulged in a prodigious yawn. With a grimace at the ample back of Maria, just disappearing out of the door, he slid out of bed.
Half an hour later, having bathed and breakfasted, Count Rodrigo, looking as fresh and bright of eye as a trained athlete, walked briskly downstairs to find that his guest had apparently not missed him in the least. Dorning was standing in front of the expansive canvas of an oil painting in the great entrance hall of the Torrianis. He had just donned a pair of tortoise-rimmed glasses and was bending over to read the metal plate set in the elaborate frame of the painting. The plate read: "Francesca Torriani, 1527-1562." Dorning realized the likeness between the ruffled-collared, sardonically smiling aristocrat on the canvas and his host, whom he now turned to greet.
"I see you are making the acquaintance of my ancestors," said Rodrigo. "This one, like the others, you will observe, led a short life and, so I understand, a merry one." Rodrigo noted curiously how glasses added at least five years to the age of John Dorning. Having at the instant of their first encounter at the Café Del Mare set the American down as an innocent and probably a prig, Rodrigo had, during their discourse and drinking of the previous night, changed his mind and conceived a mild liking for the man. Dorning was honest, outspoken, and possessed of considerable culture. He was, Rodrigo vaguely felt, the sort of person whom he should cultivate, the type that develops into a staunch and worth-while friend.
"Your ancestor has at least had the good fortune to have been perpetuated by an excellent artist," said Dorning.
"Here is something that will interest you," offered Rodrigo, walking over to a low, ornately carved cabinet set against an adjacent wall. "This is the best example of Early Renaissance cabinet work anywhere around here." Dorning bent a grave, interested head and ran expert fingers over the carving. His host tugged at the doors of the cabinet. As he wrenched them apart, a shelf inside, unbalanced by his effort, slid out upon the floor, spilling its contents as it came. The two young men looked at each other, and Rodrigo grinned sheepishly. Two bundles of letters and a feminine lace fan lay at Dorning's feet.
Rodrigo dropped to his knees and, replacing the souvenirs, closed the cabinet. He rose, dusted his hands, said suavely, "The cabinet was made by Beniti, in Genoa, around 1627. The contents are slightly more modern."